by Hank Davis
By the time Doc and I left the crash site, the first light of dawn was appearing on the eastern horizon; it might be mid-summer back on Earth, but here it was the third sol of Christmas. Peace on Mars, good will towards men.
We completed that long, hard tour, and returned to Arsia Station only a little later than usual. Once I had put Miss Thuvia to bed, Doc and I decompressed in the Mars Hotel. For the first time since we had started this little homecoming ritual, we allowed ourselves to get drunk. No wonder Doc rarely got blotto; he didn’t hold his liquor very well. He sang dirty songs and made jokes no one understood; it’s a good thing no children were present, because he would have ruined Christmas for them forever. The last I saw of him that night, he was being helped out of the bar by two of his girlfriends, neither of whom seemed likely to let him quietly pass out before they gave him the mistletoe treatment.
We made eight more Christmas tours before I retired from service. By then I was married and running AeroMars; my wife and business partners didn’t want me leaving Arsia Station for several sols each year to haul candy and toys to distant settlements. Nor was it necessary for me to play Black Peter any longer; now there were nineteen self-sustaining colonies scattered across the planet, and nearly every one of them had their own homemade Sinterklass and Zwarte Piet costumes.
Doc, though, continued to play his role every year, if only to take a rover out to nearby settlements. He was the first and best Sinterklass on Mars, and everyone wanted to see him. He relished the job, and continued it longer after he set up a private practice at Arsia. Toys and candy for all the children, wine for the adults, and a different Zwarte Piet everywhere he went. It was what he did, period. And whenever he came home, we got together for drinks and small talk.
Twelve years after we made the Acidalia rescue mission, though, Doc didn’t come back to the bar. He went out alone to Ascension during another dust storm and . . . well, vanished. No final transmissions, and no one ever found his vehicle. He simply disappeared, just like that.
I miss Doc, but I think this is an appropriate way to go. Mars is full of mystery; so is Christmas, or at least it should be. The holiday got ruined on Earth because everything wonderful about it was gradually eroded, the magic sucked away. Out here, though, we’ve got a great Christmas, and a patron saint all our own.
He lives in the caldera of Olympus Mons.
INTRODUCTION
HOW THORVALD THE BLOODY-MINDED SAVED CHRISTMAS
NOW FOR A TALE OF A WARRIOR of mighty thews and minimal brain who was enlisted in the cause of righteousness, whether he wanted to join the cause or not. It does not pay to argue with a saint, even one who’s dead. Particularly, one who’s dead . . .
ESTHER FRIESNER is winner twice over of the coveted Nebula Award (for the Year’s Best short Story, 1995 and 1996) and is the author of almost forty novels, including the USA Today best-seller Warchild, and nearly two hundred short stories. For Baen she edited the five popular “Chicks in Chainmail” anthologies, with another politically incorrect installment forthcoming. Her works have been published in the UK, Japan, Germany, Russia, France and Italy. She lives in Connecticut with her husband, is the mother of two, and harbors cats.
HOW THORVALD THE BLOODY-MINDED SAVED CHRISTMAS
by Esther M. Friesner
FAR TOO REPEATEDLY UPON A TIME in Northumbria there was a Viking named Thorvald the Bloody-Minded. He was a rather large and bilious barbarian whose Danish mother had mated with a troll during a more than ordinarily rebellious adolescence. Her intention was to teach her parents that a maiden could do worse things than stay out all night consorting with bards and other societal filth, but her juvenile attempts at parental education came a cropper when the troll followed her home, devoured her mother, and bit her father in a delicate anatomical area before falling to the sword of his victim, Bjarni the Shortened.
Thus Thorvald, that unfortunate product of a broken-and-slightly-gnawed home, grew up to be half man, half monster, and half witted. Fortunately for him, he also grew up to be a strapping lad with a mighty arm, a loyal heart, and the independent intelligence of a very small cheese. Such an ideal fighting machine would not go begging long. Thus it was that young Thorvald had barely celebrated his fifteenth birthday before he was recruited into the Great Army of those plunder-hungry rulers, Ivar (the Boneless) and Halfdan (the Much Bonier Than Ivar) for their assault upon the western island kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons.
The Great Army of Danes assaulted East Anglia in the Year of Their Victims’ Lord, 865. It was a lovely first combat experience for Thorvald, who earned a battlefield promotion and his nom de massacre after King Ivar saw what the lad singlehandedly did to the twelve Anglo-Saxons fool enough to gang up on him. Like the common rat that was his favorite breakfast treat, Thorvald the Bloody-Minded fought best when cornered and facing impossible odds. By the time the dust and eyeballs settled, the Danish forces realized that they were the lucky proprietors of the world’s first Weapon of Mass Destruction (if you didn’t count those Indian peoples already in possession of vindaloo curry).
Yes, Thorvald was gifted, a natural, an idiot savant/sauvage born to go on viking. Though he grew sullen and suspicious when asked to deal with complex matters, such as words of more than one syllable, he had little trouble living the principles behind them, such as maraud, pillage, destroy, ravish and annihilate. (Notheless he was quite grateful when his friend and shield-mate, Hvitis the Eloquent, taught him their more mnemonic, utilitarian synonyms, raid, rob, wreck, rape and splat.) Many of his fellow soldiers remarked that the young man was destined for great achievements, all of them involving a high body-count and plenty of sloppy collateral damage.
In other words, if there were one career path that no sane and sighted human being would have predicted for Thorvald, it was that of saint.
Funny old thing, Vile Circumstance. Not funny ha-ha, you understand; more like funny aaaaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeee! but there you have it.
It was in the second year of the reign of good king Ethelred of Wessex that the little Northumbrian seaport of Streaneshalch was overrun by a Viking horde and given what-ho. On the cliffs high above the sea, the venerable monastic community was introduced to the sword, the torch, and the plummet into said sea. Monks howled and fled, nuns hid, ecclesiastic treasures were plundered and all that could be put to the torch went up in a plume of smoke and flame. It was simply dreadful.
When the screaming stopped and the smoke cleared, there were Vikings all over the place. Like raspberry seeds between the teeth, it was next to impossible to dislodge them without a good deal of concentrated effort. Alas, after the raid, the only concentrated effort to which the good citizenry of Streaneshalch felt equal was tying tourniquets around spurting arteries and trying to locate one’s other arm.
To the victor belong the spoils, and to the despoiler belongs the victory. Most of Thorvald’s companions gazed about the prospect of Streaneshalch, found it agreeable, and decided to put down roots. And who was going to stop them? Your common or garden Viking does not raid for the sheer destructive joy of hands-on devastation. No, he is a pragmatic man who has taken up his sword and shield for the eminently practical purpose of survival. The northern lands whence his family tree springs are not Odin’s gift for plentiful, arable acreage, and there is just so much herring a man can eat before he goes stark mad.
Ecclesiastical gold and silver plundered from the churches is all very well and good, but give a Viking a few hides of decent land and he’ll be more likely to make mead than mayhem. A fine farm, a buxom wife, a clutter of children at the hearthside, a few slaves to keep the children from catching fire, and a break from all of that damned herring: Of such simple joys were even the most savage Viking warrior’s dreams made.
Except, of course, Thorvald.
Thorvald was not the farming type. Plows confused him. Marriage seemed to him to be a needless complication to what was otherwise quite a simple carnal transaction. Children made him nervous. He didn’t mind herrin
g. There was little question in his mind as to whether he ever would so much as consider remaining at Streaneshalch.
There was little anything in Thorvald’s mind, as a rule.
Thus it came as a surprise to no one more than himself when his good friend, Hvitis the Eloquent, informed him that the pair of them would be among those of Ivar and Halfdan’s Great Army who’d be staying on.
“But I don’t want to stay!” Thorvald bellowed, stamping his feet like a petulant child.
It was as this point that he noticed something of general interest, a patent fact which good old Hvitis, true to his name, underscored most eloquently, viz.:
“I’m afraid you’ve got no choice, Thorvald, old man. Also no left leg as such.”
It was so. At some point in the great battle, a Saxon had gotten in a lucky slash of the battle ax, hacking Thorvald’s leg just below the knee. It was the last bit of luck he enjoyed, for an enraged Thorvald promptly returned the compliment with a sword-stroke of such flair and power that the Saxon actually was able to exclaim, “Well, I guess I showed that bloody herring-eater how we do things here in Streaneshalch!” before his head fell off.
But the damage had been done.
Poor Thorvald! Hvitis never ceased from telling him how lucky he was that the Great Army’s healer—a man of medicine, magic, and applied mold—had been able to staunch the bleeding and save his life. He felt neither gladness nor gratitude. Of what use was it to breathe the summer’s air if one could not exhale that same breath in a ferocious battle-cry? What good did it do him to hobble peg-legged along the top of the Streaneshalch cliffs, gazing off across the wild waves, when he knew he’d go no more a-roving the whale-road, spreading fear and terror wherever he went?
A Viking who can no longer go on viking is not a happy Viking. Q.E.D.
Hvitis was a good man, if not half so dedicated a pillager as his friend Thorvald. He used the impetus of the Sack of Streaneshalch as collateral to obtain himself a dear old farmstead (nothing a month and nothing down unless you counted the previous owner), took (literally) a local girl to be his bride, and settled down to plow them both. Of course he invited his former shield-chum to share his home, if not his wife. “Mi casa es su casa,” said Hvitis, albeit in Danish.
“Will there be mead?” said Thorvald.
“Well, d’uh!” Hvitis replied, again in Danish.
Years passed, as they will, willy-nilly. The Northmen who’d chosen to remain at Streaneashlach soon went from being those bellowing, bloodthirsty, baby-eating, dreadful, disease-riddled Danish demons who would devour your living heart as soon as look at you to Good-old-Hvitis-up-the-hill-nice-enough-bloke-funny-accent-but-give-you-the-bearskin-off-his-back-if-you-asked-him-for-it-our-eldest-rather-fancies-his-girl-Frida. The Danes saw no dishonor in peace. Underneath it all, they were as averse to spilling blood as the next man, particularly when there was the chance of it being their own.
This did not apply when the next man was Thorvald. He had not taken well to the years of concord. His hair and beard turned white as the wintry wave-tops, his shield was pressed into service as an emergency cradle when Hvitis’ wife (in an access of enthusiasm) gave birth to twins, his hunger was more often sated by mutton than herring, but other than that, he was unchanged.
The wooden peg that had replaced his lost limb was now a formidable piece of lumber that he’d improved upon over many winters, adding some rather explicit carvings of men, women, and livestock au naturel in poses trés unnaturel. Whenever Hvitis brought the whole family to town, the common greeting was: “H’lo, Hvitis, Missus Hvitis, kids, don’t-you-dare-look-at-Mister-Thorvald’s-leg-Osbert-I-don’t-care-if-it-is-educational-I’ll-give-you-such-a-clout, Mister Thorvald, and how are you all this fine day?”
That was bad enough, but Thorvald had also girdled the lower end of the artificial leg with an iron ring liberally starred with spikes. It made for rough going when the roads were deep in mud, but it also gave substantial teeth to any kicks Thorvald might wish to distribute. No stray dogs came to give him a friendly sniff more than once, no beggars repeatedly tried his patience or his purse, and cats, being wise, gave him a wide berth without putting to empirical proof his theoretical reactions to any sociable overtures. Away from the farm, Thorvald was left alone with his ever-growing bitterness of spirit. He liked it that way.
One chill November day it so happened that Hvitis had to come to town with a considerable amount of silver, part of his share of the booty gleaned during his time with the Great Army. Now it was going to be put to use providing a dowry large enough to convince Edric Fairhair (still the richest man in Streaneshalch despite the Viking incursion and thus, by inference, the cleverest as well) to marry his son Edgar to Hvitis’ middle daughter, Thora.
Wisely, Hvitis asked Thorvald to accompany him, as a deterrent to thieves on the road. Just as wisely, once they reached town, Hvitis strongly suggested that Thorvald pass the hours until dusk as far away from the site of the betrothal negotiations as possible.
“Why?” Thorvald demanded. “I like Thora. You named her for me. If that Saxon meat doesn’t want her for a daughter-in-law, I’ll soon set him straight.”
“I’m sure you would, and I appreciate your moral support no end,” Hvitis assured him, nervously eyeing the way that Thorvald’s hand remained staunchly attached to the pommel of his old battle-blade. (Every day, rain or shine, Thorvald stumped out to the nearest woodland and kept up his swordsmanship. Hvitis hadn’t had to clear an extra hide of land with his own hands in years, though the farm was beginning to suffer a firewood shortage.) “However, my dear friend, this is a matter best settled by the immediate parties concerned.”
“I like parties,” Thorvald said hopefully.
Hvitis gave his friend a short lesson on synonyms, then said, “Here, take this, go have your own party, and I’ll find you afterwards.”
Grudgingly, Thorvald accepted his friend’s gift of several small silver bits. Hvitis frequently gave him money when they came to town, on the unspoken understanding that Thorvald would take himself to the nearest drinking establishment and methodically consume enough beer or stronger spirits to put himself into a harmless (to others) stupor. In that stupor he would remain until Hvitis came by to collect him and take him home. Thorvald’s subsidized binges were the best insurance Hvitis and all Streaneshalch had to guarantee that the former warrior would keep his sword sheathed and his spiked pegleg to himself. Though Thorvald took the money and drank the beer, he detested the whole process. He knew he was useless as a Viking, but he hated to be reminded that he was equally useless in every other capacity except that of sometime bodyguard and full-time drunk.
Perhaps it was this entrenched sense of self-loathing that inspired him to rebellion on that fateful day. Taking himself to the Severed Arms, he slammed his payment down and demanded a take-away order of the most potent spirits so much coin might buy. The master of the house made no demur (he was in fact overjoyed to hear the big man say “take-away”), and soon, carrying a huge stone jug of Mother Gudrun’s Fortified Mead and Wolf Repellent, Thorvald was hiking his way up the perilous steps that led from the town of Streaneshalch to the abbey ruins on the cliff above.
There, amid tumbled stone and charred wood, Thorvald settled himself down with his drink and his memories. The Great Army had done rather a thorough job of turning a once-thriving religious settlement into a wildlife refuge. Where formerly a community of monks had worked and prayed side-by-side with an equally devout group of nuns, in separate yet neighboring establishments, now weeds sprouted, badgers burrowed, and voles cavorted with immunity (except from the badgers).
“Good times,” Thorvald said with a sigh as he regarded the well-remembered spot where he had personally reduced an altar and all its non-marketable furnishings to shards, splinters, and ash. He cast a fond eye over the site of indiscriminate slaughter and guzzled the last of the jug that was his only companion. “Good times.” With that, he toppled over into a sodden slumber.
He awoke with his head submerged in a bucket of sea-water and to the sensation of someone doggedly kicking him in the ribs. He thrust himself clear of the brine and, with a mighty roar, drew his sword, ready and eager to give his assailant a first (and last) lesson in manners.
“Put that down,” said the little woman before him. “Now.”
Thorvald froze. The fingers he’d had wrapped around the hilt of his sword went numb, releasing their grip as if struck by lightning. It was night, and a full moon cast cold shadows through the abbey ruins. Part moonlight and part moonshadow, a woman half his height stared at him severely, the abandoned bucket of sea-water at her feet.
“Sit down,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
Thorvald sat. He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway. Resistance was more than futile: It hurt. Any independent action he attempted to take that could not be classified as obedience to that strange little woman’s direct orders was as painful as sticking his head in a beehive. Thorvald knew this as fact, not simile, having stuck his head in a beehive several times as a young man after his friends convinced him that certain breeds of bee made honey while others cut out the middleman entirely and made mead.
“That’s fine,” said the woman. She seated herself on a fallen block of stone and folded her arms. “I am Hilda, abbess of Streaneshalch. It was a very nice abbey until you broke it. Well? What do you intend to do about that, young man?”
Thorvald was speechless. He rubbed his eyes, unwilling to trust their evidence, for the longer he gazed upon the irascible woman before him, the more insubstantial she became. He could see right through her body, a vision so clear that he could even make out the mottled markings on the stone where she perched. His old grandsire’s tales of ghosts came back to him in a rush until finally he found tongue enough to say, “Oh. You’re dead.”